


Hold Me, Thrill Me, Feed Me

by malfunkshon



Category: Hanson (Band)
Genre: Feeding, Feeding Kink, M/M, Male Slash, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfunkshon/pseuds/malfunkshon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story about love, food and obsession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me, Thrill Me, Feed Me

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Zaylor  
> POV: Taylor  
> Word Count: 4,124  
> Warnings: Some sexual content but nothing too graphic.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: None of this is true. This is a work of fiction. FICTION. The characters in this story have nothing to do with their real life counterparts. Okay? Good.

**HOLD ME, THRILL ME, FEED ME**

 

It had all happened after that article on P’App Arazzy’s celebrity gossip site. It should never have become such a big deal - it’s not as if we were even that _famous_ anymore; and P’App - also known as Brian O'Dowd - was usually nice to us. Until he decided to publish a set of paparazzi shots showing Zac on a South Carolina beach. In his bathing trunks. Shirtless.

To most people, this probably doesn’t sound like a big deal, which it wouldn’t be, if it involved anyone other than my brother. Zac has body image issues, which means he doesn’t like to take his clothes off in front of complete strangers, and that includes the paparazzi armed with a long lens trying to catch a glimpse of the washed-up, one-hit wonder former popstar child.

Readers of celebrity gossip sites loved to hate my younger brother’s less-than-chiselled looks, and within days, Zac’s pictures had gone stratospheric. Pale, almost fluorescent in the first summer sun, my brother was caught licking an ice-cream,  his white stomach unashamedly protruding over the waistband of his shorts. The photos bounced from site to site, all the way to the British _Daily Mail_ ’s ‘sidebar of shame’. The descriptions were unequivocal: ‘FAT’. ‘DISGUSTING’. ‘WHO’S THE PRETTY BOY NOW?’, unilaterally and unanimously declaring that my brother, whose face only a few years before had adorned the cover of teen magazines, had committed the most heinous crime: he had let himself go and turned into a disgusting, fat slob.

To me, however, he had never looked so beautiful.

 

The ‘disgusting fat slob’ headlines had cut deep into Zac’s self-esteem, and within a few months, he had lost all the excess weight, and some more. He was, according to the seriously warped standards of fashion magazines, _catwalk_ _model material -_ all jutting cheekbones and broad shoulders over those skinny, pin-like legs. His ribcage showed through his skin, and from behind, the bones on his back looked the pattern of an angel’s wings. People said that Zac Hanson was back in shape, and offers began to arrive from European fashion houses, keen to cash in my little brother’s newly found androgynous looks. P’App Arazzy ran feature after feature on his weight loss, praising his discipline, his motivation. Everybody said Zac was _hot_ now.

But to me, Zac wasn’t Zac anymore - he was a spectre, a revenant, a walking knot of skin and bones. He looked terrifying. 

 

As anyone with a slow metabolism will know, losing weight is hard, but keeping it off is even harder. It takes over your life - the calorie counting, the gym sessions, not to mention all that time you spend thinking of what you’re _not_ going to eat. Some people get carried away, ending up in hospital bed with an I.V. plugged into their vein, but the majority just give up and return to their happier, infinitely more interesting chubby lives. 

Mercifully, my brother took the latter route. After a couple of years as the new, skinny Hanson (a title that used to belong to _me_ , and _me_ only), he began to slack on the gym visits and forfeit his lunchtime salads for old-days-Zac burger and fries; next, the diet sodas on his desk gave way to the full sugar versions.  It happened gradually - ‘it’s a treat’ Zac would say, apologetically - as if an adult male should really justify what he eats to his own junk-food loving brothers anyway. When he saw that neither myself nor Isaac were in a hurry to judge him, Zac began to relax, and stopped trying to pretend that his health-freak phase was anything other than over. Isaac and I were overjoyed: our real brother was back.

We’d been worried - our whole family had. We’re a family of big eaters - it’s part of our DNA to sit together around a table and enjoy food - real food, not bits of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. In other words, eating for the Hanson family is a ritual, a quasi-religious experience to share together. It was great to have Zac back at the table with us. 

It was roughly around that time that I began to notice how I enjoyed looking at my younger brother eating. I mean, really, _really_ enjoyed it. Kind of adjust-you-pants enjoy. My brother and I had always had a rather unorthodox relationship - all those _Zaylor_ rumours on the internet were actually true. Behind closed doors we were lovers; on stage, we cranked it up a few notches knowing it drove girls crazy and ultimately made us more money. Isaac didn’t know or, at least, pretended not to know, and everybody else thought we were just doing it for show. In other words, we’d mastered the ultimate double-bluff.

If you think that having sex with your brother is seriously fucked-up - and believe me, I’ve always been painfully aware of the fucked-up-ness of the whole thing - imagine what it must be like to get off at the sight of your brother eating. Initially, I told myself that I was just happy that Zac was eating instead of nibbling at carrot sticks and protein bars. But that did _not_ explain why I’d get a hard-on whenever I saw him bite into a burger. I mean, that’s not normal, right? _Is it?_  

A cursory Google search brought up an alarming number of results before I’d even finished typing “I like to watch my boyfriend eat” (I’d swapped ‘brother’ with boyfriend as I figured that I’d be more likely to get a result, although considering the weird shit that had come up in the search, maybe I shouldn’t have worried). Anyway, apparently it was a well-know form of sexual deviance. I clicked on one of the links, glanced at some truly horrific images on the screen before shutting the lid of my laptop, cursing my own curiosity. Soon, however, I came to accept that I’d just stepped up to a whole new level of depravity - _so why not enjoy it?_ I thought.

It didn’t take long for my brother to notice the effect he had on me whenever he brought lunch back to his desk, or if he interrupted a recording session to tuck into a box of Krispy Kremes that I’d _happened_ to pick up on my way to the studio. Oh, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing as he bit into the donut, sinking his obscenely plump lips into the soft dough in calculated, real-time slow motion. And he was most definitely aware of the effect he had on me when, after swallowing the last bite, he’d run his finger along the bottom of the empty box, picking up any last traces of sugar and icing, and then he’d put the finger in his mouth and suck it clean. 

I began to encourage him. When I cooked dinner, I’d make extra to take to the office to share with him and Isaac at lunchtime. Soon, I wouldn’t leave the house without a bag full of Tupperware boxes, and I found myself looking forward to lunchtime more than ever, the prospect of watching Zac eat so irresistible, that I just could no longer concentrate on work as I counted down to 1:00 PM the moment I sat down at my desk with my morning coffee.

It didn’t take long for things to escalate even further. I’d ask Zac round to my place for dinner - with the excuse that eating alone wasn’t fun. It was partly true; since my divorce, and without the kids around the house, I cooked to keep myself distracted in the evenings, to stave off my loneliness. But I only picked at the food I’d made; the courts had taken away all the joy of sharing a meal with the people I loved. Now, however, I cooked for the person I loved the most in the world, and it felt so good. For the first time in years, I felt alive again. 

Zac often stayed the night, which, as well as giving us some much needed time to ourselves, also allowed me to treat him to a home cooked breakfast before our drive to the office the next morning. I couldn’t think of a better way to start my day than to watch my brother stuff his face with one of his favourite foods in the world - bacon - as he sat at my breakfast bar in one of my old towelling dressing gowns, which had now become ‘his’ by default whenever he stayed over. And I loved watching him  with the corner of my eye as he got dressed, holding his breath to button up his jeans, which, by now, were seriously digging into his gorgeous pot belly. 

“Do you not think he’s going too far the other way now?” Isaac had said one day, after our usual lunchtime feast.

“What? No, he’s healthy now. He was too skinny, Ike, you said the same too.”

“I know, and I did, but…he’s eating _a lot._ He’s always eating. I look at him and he’s eating. I look away for five minutes and there he is, still eating. And you’re encouraging him. You know it’s not good in the long run, with heart disease and cholesterol and-”

“You’re not turning down any of my lunches either, Ike.”

“No, but I don’t spend every evening stuffing my face at your house and then having a cooked breakfast pretty much every day of the week now.”

“It makes him happy!” I protested.

“It makes _you_ happy, Taylor.” 

 _Touché_.

Isaac was right. It made me happy to see Zac eat the food I cooked for him, just like it made me happy to see see his waistband get tighter, and his cheeks fuller. I loved to see him get a little heavier every day; how his old clothes, which he still hadn’t replaced from his skinny days, barely fit him now.  Even his favourite shirts, which pre-dated those times, were now too tight, and he had taken to wear them unbuttoned over a t-shirt; it was around that time that he began to regularly help himself to band merch in what we’d jokingly call ‘Fanson Size’, Unisex 2XL.

Yes, it is fair to say that I loved watching Zac’s body change as a result of my actions.

And yes, I loved feeding my brother. 

 

After a while, he moved in with me.

I asked him one late Sunday morning while we lay in bed. Well, I didn’t exactly ask. _“Move in with me.”_ I said, as I idly stroked his gloriously round belly. He just looked at me with those big brown eyes and said ‘ _sure_ ’. 

That same day we went to his house and packed everything, and from that moment on, we both knew that there’d be no going back. We’d never openly discussed the strange dynamic that our relationship had taken, but there’d been no need - we both understood our respective roles. Right from the start, Zac had never questioned my actions, never once refusing food from me, even when I knew that his hunger had long been satisfied. That had been sufficient proof of his consent. Zac knew where we were heading as much as I did. I needed to feed him, and he was willing to let me do it - whenever I wanted to. Wikipedia said that what we were doing was a fetish. We, however, called it love.

 

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

 

We don’t leave the house much anymore - except for going to the office, where it’s becoming harder to avoid Isaac’s concerned look whenever he lays his eyes on Zac’s increasingly bulky shape. Every time Isaac tries to talk to me about Zac, I act dismissively, telling my older brother that he worries too much, even if I know that he’s partly right - that there will come a point when Zac’s weight becomes a health risk. But I’m not ready to stop, not yet. Things are just too good, and besides, I know that Zac will let me know if he wants out. We don’t have a safe word, not as such, but I just _know_ my brother. They say that your eyes are the mirror of the soul, and there’s no truer example than Zac: I know that the day he wants to quit, his eyes will tell me. For now, however, we are content in our own, ever-shrinking world, our daily routine punctuated by meals and band work. 

Sometimes, late at night, we curl up together on the couch, laptop on my knees, and we shop for clothes for him. I pay for everything - it’s only fair, after all. When the new clothes arrive and he tries them on for size, I can’t help the rush of anticipation as I imagine my brother’s body grow into them. Zac knows this by now, and as he stands in front of the mirror in his new baggy clothes, he looks into my eyes’s reflection and says _“I’m hungry”._  

And that is exactly what I want to hear.

It doesn’t take me very long to put together a meal that Zac loves eating and that I love watching him eat. By now, I’ve learnt that volume counts as much - if not more - than calorie content. It’s certainly way more satisfying to watch him slowly demolish a plate of home-made lasagne than wolf down a candy bar. But also, I’ve realised that starchy foods create more bulk than just bacon, ribs and steaks; so I will only serve the latter with a large portion of potatoes, rice, pancakes - anything that will bloat my brother’s stomach for a guaranteed few hours afterwards.

At mealtimes, I let Zac do all the talking so that I can concentrate on watching him, following the predictable trajectory the food makes from his plate to his mouth. The fork looks too small for my brother’s stubby hand, but he still manages to pile up a ridiculous amount on it and safely shove it into his mouth without wasting a single crumb. It’s a beautiful thing to see, and although we both make equal parts from our band’s profit, I like to pretend that I’m the bread-winner in our tiny, two persons family, and the thought that he’s eating the fruit of my labour turns me on. 

Tonight is no different: but I reach for a glass of water and count to ten. We still have dessert to get through.

We take our dessert to the bedroom, as we usually do these days. I follow Zac as he slowly makes his way up the stairs; I look at his round butt and his chunky back and I have to make a conscious effort not to grab him and take him there and then on the stairs. But that would be a waste, and I have learnt to be patient.

What follows has now become a well-rehearsed routine between us, one that gets better with every ounce of weight my brother gains. He knows what I want him to do, and doesn’t need directing. He lies on his back on the bed while I take a seat by his side; the two dessert bowls are on his bedside cabinet, but we both know that mine will go untouched. It’s pecan pie: his favourite.

Before we start, I take the two pillows from my side of the bed and place them on top of the two my brother’s head is already resting on. It’s just a safety measure - I don’t want him to choke.

He does it all himself: I don’t actually do the feeding. Instead, I sit at the far end of the bed and watch him cut into the pie with his spoon. He scoops up some of the ice cream piled up by the pie, and puts it into his mouth, keeping his eyes pinned on me all the time. His shirt is already unbuttoned, but once he’s swallowed the first spoonful, he rests the plate by his side and lifts up his t-shirt, giving me an unobstructed view of his beautifully rounded stomach. He picks up the plate again and rests it there on his belly, and I’m in awe of how quickly my brother has adjusted to a bigger, bulkier body and how he’s using it to his advantage. He takes another mouthful, and after he swallowing, he lets out a little sigh, letting me know he’s full. But his eyes are still fixed on mine, and I know he’s okay to keep going. 

As I watch him take the next mouthful, I unbutton my jeans; my hard-on is almost painful and I’m dying for release, but I must wait. My brother can’t be rushed now, as he unties the drawstring of his tracksuit bottoms and pulls them down, taking his boxer shorts down with them, so that now all of his belly is exposed. Zac’s belly-button is wider and more shallow than it used to be, and the dark strip of hair that starts just below it doesn’t look as thick now over his stretched-out skin, and looks almost perfectly split into two parallel lines, like railway tracks running over an ever-growing planet. 

He scoops another piece - the bowl is almost empty. He takes a slow breath and puts the spoon in his mouth. This time it stays there a little longer; it’s an effort now, I can see it in my brother’s face as he swallows, shutting his eyes for a moment, until he takes another breath and looks at me again. I nod at him to go on, and that’s all the reassurance he needs: he knows I believe in him. 

I push my boxer briefs down and begin to stroke myself - slowly though, because I need to time it well. There’s only a little bit of pie left, a spoonful at most, floating in a pool of melted ice-cream. Zac pushes the pie around the bowl, he’s taking his time, waiting for the previous mouthful to find somewhere to go and leave some space for the next. His breathing is shallow, and twice he brings the spoon close to his face, only to put it back down again. He looks up at me and blinks slowly, and then finally takes the last spoonful into his mouth, and his lips glisten from the melted ice-cream. He breathes in slowly through his nose, steeling himself for that one last push: and then he swallows with a little whimper. He’s done, and he’s done it for me.

He puts the plate down on the bedside cabinet, then, with considerable effort, he removes his shirt and then the thin white t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. He slouches forward as he pulls it over his head, and as he does that, rolls of fat form on his stomach, one on top of the other. Finally, he removes his pants and his underwear and lies back down, the mattress sinking under his weight. 

My turn.

I crawl on the bed and kneel between my brother’s legs; I push my jeans and my underwear down my thighs, and wrap my fingers around my dick while my brother slowly runs a hand up down his stomach, teasing me. I won’t touch him now, he’s too full and too perfect, obscenely perfect as he lies there undressed in front of me. I’m happy to do all the work now, and anyway, I know I’m not going to last very long. 

Zac wriggles on the mattress, arching his back a little; he reminds me of a pagan god in a Renaissance painting. It’s all for show and it works, because I’m stroking myself faster now, and although I’d like to make it last, I am desperate for relief. I only need a few more strokes before my heart starts beating faster and faster; blood rushes to my head and I feel like I can no longer control my body as I come all over my brother’s distended abdomen. 

Still shaking, I put my hands flat on my brother’s sides, and close my eyes for a second or two while I regain my breath and wait for my heart to slow down. When I open my eyes again, I am staring right into the mess I’ve made, thick, pearlescent white puddles on my brother’s pale skin. I look up at him and he doesn’t have to say anything, because I know exactly what he’s thinking and anyway, I always keep to my side of the deal. 

He wants me to lick him clean.

 

——

 

It’s the way he looks at me one day, slowly lifting his eyes from the plate - baked fettuccine with chicken and thyme, one of his favourite dishes that I cook for him every week. He’s been pushing the ribbons of pasta around the plate for a while - normally he wolfs it down even if it’s too hot and I have to tell him to be careful. This is not normal, and I know that he’s trying to find the courage to tell me something.

“Zac, what is it?” I ask him.

He puts the fork down and takes a deep breath.

“It’s just that…I don’t feel so good, Tay.” 

I haven’t seen that look in his eyes for a long time: my brother is afraid. Not of me, but of disappointing me. I reassure him that, whatever it is, he can talk to me. When he finally opens up, he tells me he hasn’t been feeling well for a while now; he feels the excess weight is taking its toll on his frame, and his stomach is rebelling against the constant ingestion of food by unleashing painful heartburn after every meal. As he tells me this, a horrid realisation dawns on me: I’ve been hurting my brother. When he’s finished, I push the plate away from him and hold him tight. I tell him that I love him and I always will - whatever his shape and size. _I will fix this,_ I tell him. _We will fix this._

The next day I order a treadmill and an exercise bike. I have them installed in the games room, which I am converting into a home gym. I jog while he pedals next to me, keeping him company to make sure he doesn’t slack. The weight comes off really quickly, his metabolism shocked into change by the new routine. I still cook for him, serving him normal portions of healthy meals with a lot of fresh vegetables. I don’t want him to feel that he’s on a diet - we’ve been there before and it only caused problems. At weekends, we still have a cooked breakfast and dessert with our dinner.

Everybody in our family is very supportive and, I suspect, deep down very relieved that Zac is getting healthy again. Isaac - the only one with a swimming pool in his house, gives Zac a set of keys and a printout of his family’s busy schedule. It’s an apparently small gesture, but I’m touched by how deeply Isaac understands our younger brother - who wouldn’t strip down to bathing shorts in front of anyone other than me. So two afternoons a week, when we know Isaac’s wife and kids are out, we swim laps together in the privacy of our older brother’s home. With the weight of his body buoyed up by the water, and free from his usual layers of clothing, Zac looks comfortable in his own skin for the first time in years.

 

I lie in bed, curled up against my brother, my knees tucked into the back of his knees, my chest pressed against his back. From the way his foot twitches every now and then, I know he’s falling asleep. I wrap my arm around him, and rest my hand on his stomach: it’s not as full as it was before, but it’s still covered by a nice, soft layer of fat. I can’t resist the temptation to slowly put my hand under my brother’s t-shirt and feel his naked skin, so warm and smooth. I dig into his little belly with my fingers, but Zac whimpers in protest, stirring in his state of half-sleep, so I let go, but still keeping my hand there, where it rises and falls with my brother’s breathing. He’s fast asleep now. I know he won’t hear me but I still whisper into his ear: I tell him that I love him, that I am sorry to have caused him pain. “You’re perfect.” I say quietly into my brother’s ear, moments before I surrender to sleep. “Perfect.”


End file.
